


Incandescence

by Blue Yeti (blueyeti)



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: (is complicated), Breathplay, Frenemies, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-negotiated consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Superpower Sex, fireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueyeti/pseuds/Blue%20Yeti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Warren don't manage to stay on the same side of the good/bad dichotomy after high school ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incandescence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atlantia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlantia/gifts).



> Speedy treat, so barely reread. Please point out any typos/inconsistencies/general moments of suck, and I'll do my best to improve them.

There was something wrong with the air, heavy and smokey and choking. There usually was. The echo of every single thing they'd ever said to each other, everything just hovering, waiting, watching them make fools of themselves. Everything that wasn't quite right. The lies that came true - not that they were important, not really, not now. It was just the collection of them, the hypocrisy of trying to be anything other than their father's sons. 

There wasn't a rift which could be traced back, there wasn't a moment when lies became truth and truth hung around, falling out of Layla's mouth with such well timed superiority. They just fell out of school, and into this.

Now they were here. Here in a moment where Will Stronghold and Warren Peace are looking at each other, and the moment has stretched far too long. They both know it has. They'd sat through lectures together, all about how to get your average supervillian to monologue in an egotistical manner so you can find out the nuances of the plan in time to thwart and save the day. But Warren is hardly the type to monologue, if he fell to evil (not evil, Will can't give it that much credit, it was simply the path of least resistance). And his form of discontent doesn't need school girl hostages waiting for the hero to swan in. (Warren always mocked the flying as swanning, because he couldn't think of a less controlled way to enter a room.)

There aren't any hostages. There aren't any minions. No witnesses at all.

Which doesn't explain why they are still staring at each other. 

"Red Blaze, can't you--"

"Shut it, Will."

In the course of the fight the blast door has slammed shut (good, Will thought, no civilian interference) and the employees had been evacuated (Layla was efficient and reliable, getting her roots in everywhere) and Will was standing over Red Blaze with a wound-up punch, ready to apply some bizarrely huge kenetic forces. Red Blaze was just grinning. He always grinned, like someone from a comic book. No decent monologue, no taking of hostages, no minions getting underfoot, who may or may not be properly unconscious. 

Just Red Blaze, a closed room, and twenty-three minutes before a backup team would be sent in. 

"Red Blaze, your creativity is hardly peaking with this little escapade. Honestly, what were--"

"Hello, Will." And that was annoying, how he refused to call him Captain Valiant. Villians should be decent enough to use the conveniently distancing effects of multiple monikers. It was etiquette. Not that Warren - _Red Blaze_ \- had ever had etiquette. And he only said hello, and his name, that shouldn't feel like being bench-pressed by Dad. 

There should be a comeback. They'd had lessons in comebacks, but Will had spent that semester distracted by Warren's inappropriate doodles and the feel of his breath when he lent over to whisper underhanded examples Doctor Audicus would never pass. Yes, something witty and short, delivered right before a punch to send him through the wall. Yeap, that punch. The one from his fist which has fallen to worry at the edge of his cape. He drops the cape. Damn. 

"How's little Layla?"

Warren is up from the floor - when had that happened? - and moving towards Will. 

"Oh, Layla's fine. Outside cleaning up your mess, of course." Will's hoping she's still outside, she'll know not to run in, that they'll be fine.

"I meant has she used that sublime trick with the vines and the bedhead and her tongue yet. Oh, that made me come so very hard, I almost fried her by accident." 

Damn Warren's rule-breaking. Layla's off limits, always has been. Will stepped forward again - when had he stepped back? Damnit, Dad will have his hide. 

Warren's face is right in his. Looking down, that little smirk hovering in the left corner of his lips. 

"Fuck you, Warren." Shit, going for wit, and come out with a come on. No. Wit, punch, accidentally slipping so Warren can get away and Dad can't place anything on him. Then he can leave the building, give a soundbite to the news, and Layla will look at him with pity and perhaps just an edge of sympathy which he doesn't want to examine too closely. 

Warren's hand is hovering just above his cheek. Centimetres between them. He can feel the warmth of that hand and he doesn't lean into it, he can't, Dad'll kill him, and Layla will talk about Villains Anonymous with her hopeful look, and he can't stand that.

He doesn't lean into it. No. But there's a flicker from the corner of his eye and flames hovering so close, so close and he's closed his eyes before he can think and Warren smells like kerosene and smoke and a little bit like the hot woks of the Paper Lantern, although that's absurd, because he hasn't worked there since high school.

There's a flick of flame, sent straight past his ear and the smell of scorched hair is more embarrassing than the blush which is spreading across his cheeks. Warren is smirking, an evil grin, and the flames reflect in his eyes. It's beautiful. Will just keeps forgetting he's the villain. 

"You shouldn't have signed up for the lycra and tights if you couldn't stand the heat, Stronghold."

"Shut up, Warren." 

He should be able to do this. Dominating. Powerful. Don't give your enemy time to regroup, take them out quickly and cleanly and you're home in time for tea. 

Class never really covered the villain flicking flames between his fingertips, and then stroking them down your front until your costume starts to fray, splitting across that stupid insignia, little flutters of ash floating to the ground. His breath catches. This is unfair, so very unfair. Villians are allowed to use all known weaknesses, but Will still wants to play fair, or perhaps he just doesn't want to play this at all, although that's not quite right, he just doesn't want to believe Warren is--

The flames lick his face, again, and the smell is stronger, exactly like he remembered it, with an edge of black smoke curling from the uniform hanging from his arms. Scorched flesh where the flicks of material rest before flaring to ash and char. He always was controlled. Warren only fucked this up once, with the flaming carpet in his parent's house, and every time since, damnit, it's been perfect. And Will can only stand there, too scared to reach out and push him away because he'll push him through a wall if he tries to get away, or crush his spine if he pulled him in for a kiss, and this was never fair, why did Warren have all the control? Or Layla? And even blasted Ethan hasn't melted under pressure since senior year. 

Will reaches out, grabbing at the edge of Warren's shirt, and it pulls away, the fabric stretching and thinning because his fingers clutch at it, through it, and he can't stop but he won't touch. 

"Tell me, Will," Warren says, and he's kneeling before him, a position not submissive at all because he knows Will won't dare touch him, he can't, "do you get this hot for everyone you fight, or am I special?" 

His hair is practically sparking, it's so close to the flaming remains of Will's goddamn red and blue belt, as it falls away in a curl of dirty soot and he's so hard and Warren hasn't touched you yet. Or he's touching Will every time he has to rescue stupid civilians from a stupid building on fire, and Warren's touching him when Layla puts candles on the table, and Will keeps a zippo in his pocket (though he doesn't know anyone who smokes). 

"You're special," Will pants, "of course you're fucking special."

Warren blows upon the smoking remains of the lycra - stupid suit, stupid not properly fireproof suit Dad said would withstand anything - and the little coals flare up. Invulnerability sucks. Invulnerability is completely overrated, when it means that he has to be set on fire before he's turned on, and Warren can smirk at his knees and he can't do anything to control him because Warren isn't, and he couldn't stand to hurt him. And why didn't he let Speed take on Warren as his arch enemy, because he knew it would be like this, and it's bloody Luthor and Superman all over again, although Warren's not seriously trying to destroy the world, which is good, because then Will would really have problems and - oh fuck, Warren's just breathing on him, just smirking, and breathing and he's never been so hard, and there's a flicker of too much just there -

A lick that's 400 degrees, a tongue dry and harsh across the head of his cock, hot breath blowing ashes from the shaft. There's something smoldering in his pubes, bits of undergarment, and it's just a spike of pain that's pleasure that's watching Warren breathe his flames across his inner thighs, and it burns. 

Warren's mouth wrapped around his cock, hot slick of his mouth five degrees hotter than Layla's. A suck that's pulling all the oxygen from the room, burning up and sparking in the dark behind his eyes. Two hands on his hips, the left holding the flame, a little flicker of scorching heat that's licking his skin and consuming the crinkly hairs, but there's nothing flame can do to invulnerable flesh. 

"Fuck. Why the fuck--" Will says, but he doesn't know what there is to say. They both know why they're still here, here again, and there's no point talking about the nihilistic truths of fire. "Fuck."

"Yes," Warren says.

Left hand moving from his hip to his balls, squeezing and flashing heat and sucking pressure and there's hardly any air left, taken by the fire, and a finger of flame scorching his very edge of his arse and Will comes in Warren's mouth, thick and heavy and the world so white he can't see. Will screams, and for a moment the pain isn't pleasure and heat, it's a moment of searing fear like he remembers from before, when flames _hurt_. That's enough. Enough to make his legs collapse beneath him, and he catches himself on Warren's shoulders.

Warren smirks. "You're such a good boy, Stronghold."

"Fuck off, Red." 

"Not yet." 

Warren undoes his leather trousers, pushing them down his thighs, and grabs Will's hand, pulling it to his dick. Will touches with something resembling care, smooth fingers over slick head, and Warren's just grinning at him, waiting. 

"I should leave you like this."

"You won't." 

He won't. He won't stop this, won't tuck Warren away, back into the scorched leather. He wouldn't leave anyone else to find him.

"I could." With a single shove Warren is flat on his back, one leg twisted beneath him, and Will is staring down at him, one forearm pressing against his chest like a vice. "I could hold you here, and the cops will come in and see you. Like this. For me. With your dick hanging out." 

"The tabloids would crucify you."

"I don't care."

Warren tries to buck up, his cock brushing Will's forearm, and it's like nothing else is happening. Just them, lying together on a concrete floor, like when they had an apartment together and didn't make it out of the kitchen before fucking. Will naked, and Warren fully clothed, it used to be the other way around, Warren shameless, taking Will fast.

Will hates it when he remembers being happy, gloriously happy and content, and they only played with fire while smiling.

"You're a bastard, Warren," he says, the hand on his chest reaching up to his throat, pushing his chin back so Warren can't look at him anymore, can't see his eyes. Fingers wrap around his tanned throat, and it's like watching someone else's hand there, holding there, pressing down, someone who hasn't snapped a man's neck by accident and Warren held him while he cried, hearing the sound again and again, rattling, cracking, snapping in his dreams. 

He pushes down, the feel of his throat, the flicker of his pulse getting faster and faster, the last swallow as Warren tries to get more air, and he can't, like the burning in the air pulling the oxygen from Will, he takes it back. Warren's hand flies up to Will's face, holding or hitting, and the flame flickers out. No more oxygen for it.

Will lets him have half a gasp, a breath across the coal, then pushes down again. 

One hand on his cock, and Warren is panting, his face flushed and his eyes a little panicked. He knows the fire's out, that he can't fight back, and there's the look in his eyes that Will doesn't want to see again, he can't see it again, so he pushes his chin further back, one more breath allowed, and Warren is struggling under his hands, and writhing and fighting the feeling, and then he's coming across his teared shirt, and ruining his trousers, and Will lets him have his breath back.

A gasp. Another. 

Will wraps himself in the obnoxious cape that is only singed at the edges, and leaves Warren to escape, again.

"Next time, I'll let you kiss me."


End file.
